Temple of the Traveler: Book 02 - Dreams of the Fallen

by Scott Rhine

  Jotham placed his finger over his lips again, and she deflated.

  The teacher sat casually on the ledge of the sand garden, with the majesty of the gabled manor over one broad shoulder and the balanced rock over the other. The Semenosian man looked to be about forty but still had the wavy, brown hair and smooth, kind face Jolia remembered. His fine, quilted vest was clearly handmade, probably by the dreaded wife. She sighed, then settled down to watch the people and their dynamics rather than listening to whatever boring thing they were nattering about. A few of the ten men were more philosophers than builders. One seemed preoccupied with the cost of everything, while another man spent all his time drawing trees and people with charcoal.

  She tuned in briefly when Jotham seemed particularly interested.

  “Windows aren’t for looking in,” stated one architecture student emphatically. “Windows are for looking out of.”

  The priest smiled.

  “A bold statement,” said the famous architect. “What do you think windows are? Anyone.”

  “For letting in light and air,” said another pupil. “Inviting in the good aspects of nature while holding out the harsh.”

  “Like our river view,” supplied the teacher. “As defenses, though, should they be barred?”

  “For a prison or shuttered against spring storms?” said the architecture student.

  “Against the night. Otherwise, your light escapes and robbers can climb in while you sleep,” said another.

  “Powerful things with many rules, windows seem to be,” said the teacher, as amused as Jotham. “What about the shape?”

  “Square,” decreed one student.

  “Why?” asked another.

  “Because boards are flat, you twit.”

  “On a ship, I’ve seen round ones,” countered the insulted party.

  “Then it’s a porthole,” explained the belligerent one.

  “Circular reasoning. You can’t define a window as square and just claim that anything not square must have a different name. The sunroom has a round window in the ceiling.”

  “A skylight,” argued the other.

  “Semantics!”

  Just when it looked like they might come to blows, Simon interceded. “I think that he’s arguing that form follows function.”

  “Exactly,” said the student, eager for the support.

  “But on the other hand, the clever builder shapes his world and bends it to his design,” the teacher said. Both men fell silent.

  Turning to the oldest student of the ten, a carpenter, the teacher asked, “What do you believe a window to be?”

  The old skeptic grunted. “A hole in the wall that I have to shore up so the whole thing doesn’t collapse.”

  The teacher laughed. “There we have it. A window is a harmonious hole in the wall that can be covered at need. At which point it may or may not be considered a hole any more. It is therefore something that holds the capacity to unmake itself. It is not seen itself as much as it facilitates your relationship with the outside world.” The group chuckled at his paraphrasing. “Any other definitions?”

  Jotham spoke. “Windows are the eyes of a house. Whether you intend it or notse passing by can tell a lot about your private world by them, where they aim, and what lies directly behind.”

  “Indeed,” agreed the teacher. For effect, Simon picked up the pad of the artist and raised it up for all to see, a dramatic and somewhat idealized portrait of Jolia. “I think class is over for this evening. We adjourn to the dining hall.”

  When all the others had gone, Simon held forth his hand. Jotham shook it with his own, gloved hand. The teacher kissed Jolia’s hand as she curtsied. Walking away from his students, Simon said, “You, sir, are a Master.”

  “I prefer to be known as an honest laborer seeking sustenance,” said the priest.

  “You have surely come to steal my students. Come, I shall give them to you,” said Simon.

  Jotham shook his head good naturedly. “I have two students, and they’re more than enough to keep me busy.”

  Simon grew serious. “I open my home and hospitality to thee. What do you truly seek?”

  The priest chewed his lip. “For now, my companion needs a place to live. Do you remember her?”

  Simon handed the charcoal picture to Jolia and said, “I don’t, but someone else might if you let this drawing out. The lady, who I cannot recall, may rest here in safety. Although she’ll need to contribute to the common good, as do all my students. I recommend the kitchen, which is out of sight to all but a few members of my staff.”

  Jolia looked first grateful and then offended. “You’re going to make me a cook?”

  “No, that’s far too skilled a position,” Simon explained. “You’ll probably start as a washerwoman. My wife will supervise.”

  “But,” she began in protest.

  The priest in the big straw hat raised a finger. “It’s an excellent position for a woman nobody knows and who has no skills to be seen in public.”

  Jolia growled. “I don’t see his students working.”

  “They’re adding living quarters along the outer wall, improving drainage on the paths, and finding a way to keep mold out of the grout in the darker areas. As I said, everyone contributes here,” assured their host. Simon then turned and asked Jotham, “What about yourself?”

  “I’m merely waiting here until I get a sign to move on.”

  “The very definition of life,” joked Simon, leading the two back to his home. “What sort of work do you enjoy?”

  “Outdoors,” said Jotham. “Raking the sand garden, if you need someone for that.”

  Simon considered the request for a moment. “That’s a delicate and deceptively difficult task, but you may attempt it on a trial basis. It must be done before any of the other students arise.” Jotham nodded. “Excellent, I will inform the staff we have two more guests.”

  “Are these men aware of what you really teach?” the priest asked.

  “Rarely,” said Simon as he washed his hands in a cistern at the door to his manor. “But hopefully they learn it just the same.” He handed them towels from a stack on his front porch so they could wash up as well. “Please wait here for a moment.”

  As he entered the mansion, they caught a glimpse of the elegant interior. The semi-circular hall was an extraordinary showplace of colorfully stained wood panels, columns, and polished stone. A railed balcony above them allowed those from the bedchambers a chance to see visitors from safety. The domed ceiling allowed light from several windows to filter in, with no need for candles.

  “What is he teaching?” hissed Jolia when Simon was gone.

  “Revolution,” said Jotham for effect. Then when she seemed scandalized, he added, pointing to the side of his head, “Of the mind. He is teaching them to think, not just learn.”

  “What’s the difference?” asked the former concubine.

  The priest sighed heavily and voiced admiration for a mosaic pattern in the stonework of the path. Jolia then noted similar patterns at the base of every pillar. “It’s a type of seashell. Beautiful.”

  “It’s a nautilus,” he explained, his eyes narrowing. Something tickled his recollection. “It is a favorite of geometers and mathematicians.” He could suddenly discern the same pattern in the wood grain of the front door.

  “What do architecture and art have to do with math?” asked Jolia.

  Jotham rubbed his forehead but was saved from comment by the return of Simon. The architect held a metal-shod staff in his now-gloved right hand, and his face was fixed with a stern expression. “Inside,” he snapped to Jolia. When the priest moved to follow, Simon interceded. “We’ll have words, sir—in private.”

  The door closed soon after she entered.

  The pale, silvery metal tip of the staff hovered in the air between the two men; the sesterina sparkled like a piece of jewelry. There was an empty slot in the metal about three fingers high, which probably impaired its strength. Seein
g his appraisal of the decorative aspects of the weapon, Simon said, “I know how to use this. If the moment comes, I won’t need the eight men I can summon with a shout.”

  Jotham asked. “Has your welcome been rescinded?”

  “I’ve granted you every hospitality in the code. But until you step foot in my house, I owe you nothing,” said the architect in harsh tones. “I don’t give haven to thieves, kidnappers, or killers.”

  Straightening his back and neck, the priest prickled. “Unfriendly words, without foundation. What spurred them?”

  “A broadsheet we received from the palace described you in less flattering terms than that. I found it on my desk,” explained Simon.

  “Don’t turn Jolia over,” begged Jotham.

  “I trust that Jolia is innocent in all this and will hold her safe upon my honor. But your honor, sir, is the one in question.”

  “The Viper seldom speaks true. I, however, have never lied to you. Ask me what you wish,” said the priest.

  ="0">“Only one thing. Are you a member of the Cult of the Executioners and those things worse than death?” the rich builder demanded.

  The Tenor fumed at the injustice, but maintained his center. “You refer to heresies and corruptions of the true Way.”

  The metal tip of the staff traveled down Jotham’s chest until it contacted metal. Simon used his other hand to pull out the holy symbol. Hatred seethed in the architect’s eyes. “Get off my property, you ghoul.”

  “There will be consequences,” stated Jotham.

  Simon leaned close. The priest could see the enameled nautilus shell amulet under the man’s vest. “The next one of your scum cult members to threaten me or those under my protection gets tossed in the river.”

  The eunuch priest said nothing, but walked beside his host to the front gate and then allowed two guards to escort him to the crossroads outside town. When they left, Jotham sat to the side of the road and began to meditate on the confrontation.

  Chapter 20 – Red Sails in the Sunset

  Sailing on the Inner Sea, Lad

  y Kragen rose at midnight and prepared to send her Shadow forth to collect information about Governor Onira’s cooperation with the grand plan for Zanzibos. After Tumberlin departed, Humi began to doze inside the circle of protection, awaiting her servant’s return in a few hours.

  A glowing red circle appeared on the side of the ship’s hull. The wards began to blacken. Humi struggled to raise another spell of protection, but couldn’t free herself from the lethargy that hung over her. Sleep would not relinquish its hold. The smell of burning iron filled the air.

  A voice whispered in Humi’s ear from behind. “We have much in common, empress-to-be.”

  “Who are you?” she demanded. No mere spirit or wizard could have accomplished this feat, only the gods or Others like them in power, if not sanity.

  “I am she that wanders the Inner Sea . . . she that hates the Sheriff of Tamarind Pass worse than thee.” The heat in the room increased. Humi began to worry for the safety of her child. Suddenly the temperature stabilized. “Your child is safe. Indeed, I come with an offer that would provide him with great security.”

  “What do you ask of me?” asked Humi, swallowing with difficulty.

  “Place my symbol on your banners, and I’ll make you the mightiest woman in the mortal realm. I’ll pass to you all my knowledge of sorcery as well as the reins to the Temple of Sleep, my temple, whose soldiers even now scatter for the lack of a leader.”

  The voice of the dragoness thrilled Humi. Of course the answer would be yes. A refusal would sink her vessel and end her plans of vengeance; however, she held out for the greatest advantage. “You want worship?”

  “Yesss . . .”

  “What do I get in return? I don’t need you to command troops. My marriage will do that for me. I have legions of wizards to teach me. What can you grant me that’s different than what I possess already?”

  The dragoness sighed in pleasure. “You do not dsappoint. Only because I will enjoy seeing you drain the life out of that cursed sheriff do I acquiesce. What gift do you wish?”

  “That which my husband always wanted, absolute control of the Inner Sea, something even the past emperors never had. Any ship not flying my banner, our banner, shall not survive the Inner Sea.”

  There was a hiss of steam. “Until you die or bid me cease, this shall be. I am Serog and you will worship me only.”

  “I swear,” said Lady Kragen, and she felt a static charge ripple over her chest and brain. She rolled around on the deck for several moments, incapable of coherent thought or speech. The symbol of the gray dragon was now etched on her clothing and over her womb.

  “Why me?” Humi asked as she felt the Dawn presence fading.

  “You had no god. You were empty. Sympathetic resonance drew me. We’re both mothers. You’ll understand what the sheriff has taken from me. Serve me well and there is no limit to what you and your heirs can achieve.”

  ****

  The silk merchant paced the docks in the poor, delta town of Turiv. This was the only civilian port near Reneau with a harbor deep enough for the Kragen vessel. Having paid local children to keep watch, Penceworth was one of a select handful who knew that a strange set of sails had arrived on the darkening horizon. The bride would be almost a day early. The merchant had taken the liberty of reserving the entire top floor at the best rooming house in town. He’d also brought a white, silk-covered palanquin of the latest fashion popular with the royal court. He’d dressed the four bearers in the Kragen family coat of arms in hopes of making a good first impression.

  The sails turned red as they approached. It was completely dark by the time The Beauty finished tying up to the docks.

  When the first sailor clomped onto the pier to tie up, the seven local guards stood dumbfounded. The merchant had no such speech impediment. He bowed low and said, “Hail house of Kragen. I’m Penceworth, a representative of the merchant society, come to bid you welcome. Your rooms await.”

  Humi moved toward the gangplank and was assisted down the ramp. The merchant remained stooped low. She wobbled over to him, unsteady with her land legs.

  “Lady, please sit and take your ease, I brought this palanquin as a gift to show you the quality of our silken goods.” He gestured to a box that looked like a four-poster-bed on carrying pole, piled high with pillows and draped with highly decorated curtains.

  She bounced briefly but approvingly on the plump cushions. Hordes of Kragen retainers flooded the docks, unloading gear, weapons, and gifts for the Imperial court.

  She grunted, “Stand,” and handed him a scrap of paper. It bore a gray dragon on a field of purple, with a six-pointed Imperial crown above, and the Kragen crest below. “This is your lucky day. Make at least ten of these banners for the ships of the realm. Merchants sailing the Inner Sea must purchase one of these banners for a tax of seven gold weeks. You may keep one gold from each fee as your commission. Sunset after next, any ship without this banner discovered on the open sea shall be sunk. Understood?”

  “Completely,” said Penceworth, eyes gleaming with greed. “I’ll bring the first proofs to your lodgings by breakfast tomorrowlockquote>

  Again, her face showed approval. “If you do all things as efficiently as you have tonight, I’ll have many uses for you.”

  Penceworth bowed and departed on his mission.

  Humi snapped at the stupefied dock night guard. “Where are the others? The Imperial honor guard?”

  Facing the planks, the head guard begged forgiveness for the emperor. “His concubine was kidnapped by a southern assassin, his elite Somnambulists are in disarray, and the sky still smokes from the fires on the Holy Mountain. He wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow, Lady.”

  She frowned. “What about the sheriff?”

  “You mean the one who destroyed the Temple of Sleep? They think he died in the collapse. Troops are busy clearing the rubble to find him, but the Somnambulists running amok are maki
ng that difficult,” the head guard related with lower and lower tones as her wrath grew more evident.

  Humi replied, “Send word to his majesty that his bride-to-be awaits him at the Temple of Sleep.”

  The head dock guard saw his opportunity for political advancement and snapped to attention. “I’ll do so personally. The rest of my men are at your disposal, Lady.” True to his word, he dashed for the rookery.

  The other six guards stood staring at the rows of foreign knights and squires forming on either side of the white palanquin. Turning her attention to the next guard in line, Humi said, “You, the unshaven one. Yes. The rogue sheriff isn’t in the rubble of the temple but has escaped to the North. Send your armies there. Find him. Kill him. Do not return with a report until this has been accomplished.”

  “You want me to do what?” the fool blurted.

  The Imperial thug at Humi’s side held a decorative, thick-headed club taller than he was. He looked to his employer for instruction. Humi gestured with a circular motion, and then held up a single finger. Her henchman swung the enormous club with blinding speed at the hesitating guard’s leg. The punished man fell screaming. Another Kragen retainer confiscated the man’s Honor.